"Miracles are to come. With you I leave a remembrance of
miracles: they are by somebody who can love and who should be continually
reborn, a human being; somebody who said to those near him, when his fingers
would not hold a brush 'tie it to my hand...' nothing proving or sick or
partial. Nothing false, nothing difficult or easy or small or colossal.
Nothing ordinary or extraordinary, nothing emptied or filled, real or unreal;
nothing feeble and known or clumsy and guessed. Everywhere tints childrening,
innocent spontaneous, true. Nowhere possible what flesh and impossibly such a
garden, but actually flowers which breasts are among the very mouths of
light. Nothing believed or doubted; brain over heart, surface: nowhere hating
or to fear; shadow mind without soul. Only how measureless cool flames of
making; only each other building always distinct selves of mutual entirely
opening; only alive. Never the murdered finalities of wherewhen and yesno,
impotent non games ofwrongright and
yes rightwrong; never to gainor
prove, never the soft adventure of undoom, greedy anguishes and cringing
ecstasies of inexistence; never to rest and never to have: only to grow.